


Arthur Shappey's Dog and Biscuit

by BrosleCub12



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Arthur loves helping, Day Off, Drinking & Talking, Fluff, Gen, Introspection, Male Friendship, Martin being awkward, Not the kind of drinking you would expect, Post-Kuala Lumpur, Social Anxiety, which is why we love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: The crux of it is: Arthur isn't lying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had an enormous amount of fun writing this and it was extremely cathartic as I've struggled a lot socially in recent times. My fanfic skills are still a bit rusty; I've had some slight issues and particularly some low self-esteem problems when it's come to writing over the last few years, after being put on antidepressants and the difference has shown in my work. The fic is unbeta'ed and all mistakes are mine, so constructive criticism is always welcome. 
> 
> This takes place immediately after Kuala Lumpur in Series 2, so obviously spoilers for that episode. I don't own Cabin Pressure; it just makes me happy.

It’s the lick on his hand that brings Martin back to earth, the sudden swipe of cheery damp against his fingers that makes him jump a mile. Startling in his seat – Carolyn’s seat, he remembers, or rather, Carolyn’s sofa – he glances down at the dog _: Snoopadoop,_ he remembers with despair and even thinking the name makes him feel stupid, even more stupid than he already feels right now. The dog is regarding him with clear curiousity, her mouth open in a quiet pant, tail wagging slowly as she gazes up at him.

Martin smiles at her, uncomfortable – _smiling at a dog,_ of all things, and then Arthur is calling through from the kitchen, his voice echoing off the tiles:

‘D’you still want sugar, Skip?’

‘Erm. Yes. Please,’ he manages to call, wiping his damp, licked hand on his jeans; Snoopadoop watches his movements and he wonders if she’s offended. He feels a little awkward; this is the first time he’s been to Carolyn’s house – well, been inside it, anyway. Pickups are left firmly outside; neither he or Douglas have been allowed in, at least not to his knowledge.

… Although, maybe Douglas has been inside and he just doesn’t know. He’s been around long enough, settled in enough to wheedle his way in, somehow – maybe shared a few dinners with Arthur and Carolyn, the three of them gathered around the big dining table across the threshold, all red wine and good food.

Bet the boys on the airfield go around to each other’s houses all the time, Martin thinks, bitter. He’d heard them talking about it on all those frankly horrid nights at the Flap and Throttle, while he’d been trying to duck out of the way of the skittles: laughing reminiscences of this barbecue where Dave had burnt the steaks, or that pub-quiz where Carl had won them a bonus point for knowing his _Star Trek_ trivia. Martin, who can’t even afford steak and doesn’t watch _Star Trek,_ had grinned tightly and born it, trying not to dwell on the fact that since arriving in Fitton, he’s been to nothing like that; had no-one around to ask, really, or indeed ask him.

He tries – has tried – to dispel that particular thought away but it’s difficult and try as he might, it won’t leave. The last week has been horrid, straining, rather smelly – and all for his desperate attempts to fit in, he thinks, furious with himself and his apparent incapability at socialising. A lot of wasted time and he shifts on the sofa, suddenly restless, tries to get away from that realisation; places his elbows on his knees even as he becomes aware that Arthur’s dog is skittering backwards a little at his sudden movement, clearly wondering what he’s about to do; if he’s about to get up, maybe and play with her?

 _Fat chance._ Martin bites his lip, gazing into a pair of round, dark eyes. They’re not unlike Arthur’s, though: very warm and not without an enticing glint. And because his hands won’t sit still, he finds himself reaching out – hesitating – and then placing a palm against Snoopadoop’s head, giving it a soft, careful stroke.  

And he isn’t bitten, or snarled at; she doesn’t duck her head away in alarm and he finds himself breathing out even as Arthur waltzes through, humming, tea-tray in hands complete with mugs and biscuits. He’s changed out of his uniform; he’s wearing a bright blue jumper and jeans and while it’s not entirely unfamiliar from nights away and whole weeks of being on standby, it’s still slightly odd.

‘Here you are, Skip. Eat up.’

Snoopadoop waggles her tail, shifting hopefully on the spot as Arthur hops around her with a clear expertise and he chuckles, putting the tray down and pulling from his pocket a little packet of the dog-treats that Martin usually sees in shops, but has never had to buy.

‘Yeah, Snoop, I didn’t forget you. Drink up, Skip; oh, have a biscuit, too!' He beams at canine and captain alike and Martin realises that he never managed to conjure up an excuse on why precisely he couldn’t stay long, never mind for a cup of tea. Too late now; a few polite sips and then he’ll disappear and he takes the mug dumbly before he’s offered the biscuit place with an enthusiastic shake.

‘Really, Arthur, that’s –that’s lovely, but I couldn’t – um.’ He inspects the selection. ‘Are those – Happy Faces?’

‘Yeah! And chocolate rounds! Mum always lets me buy them,’ Arthur sits down next to him with a heavy whoosh, bouncing the cushions and causing Martin’s tea to slop over the side of the mug as he tries to steady himself. ‘Oh, sorry…’

Martin looks around, frantic; in Carolyn’s house ten minutes and he still manages to cause a spillage, missing his trousers but dripping onto the sofa instead – but Arthur is immediately on the case, taking the mug with care and wiping it, placing it down on the table as he cleans up.

‘Sorry,’ Martin mumbles; Arthur shakes his head, calmly.

‘That’s alright,’ he counters, ‘my fault, I do it all the time. And it could be worse; I remember when I spilled cranberry juice on the love-seat and Mum went absolutely – well.’ He coughs into his mug. ‘Best not to talk about it.’

‘Hm.’ Martin decides not to pursue the topic of Carolyn owning a love-seat of all things and instead takes a slight, shaky sip of the tea. It’s the perfect shade of warm and reviving, just as it is on the aeroplane and goes a long way in lifting his spirits; a taste of familiarity, Martin thinks, something he usually associates with the simple joy (and yes, okay, safety) of GERTI’s flight deck. He finds himself savouring it for a moment, before glancing over the rim. Snoopadoop has lain down right in front of his feet and as soon as Martin meets her eyes, she crosses her paws in front of her.

‘Er…’ A little unsure (and if he’s honest, looking for something to say; something that won’t be plane-related, _not talking shop)_ Martin glances Arthur’s way. ‘What does – what does she want?’

‘These,’ Arthur says cheerfully, holding up the little bag of dog-biscuits and Snoopadoop surges to her feet again, panting hopefully. Martin's lips twitch a little, looking at her and then the bag is being shoved under his nose.

‘Here, Skip,’ Arthur tugs one out – a rather odd brown piece in the shape of a crystal – and hands it over. ‘Give her that, she’ll love you for it.’

‘Oh. Well…’ Martin takes the biscuit dumbly; not _really_ looking for the love of his boss’ dog, after all. The next second, it’s gone – Snoopadoop has shot up and snatched it right from between his fingers.

‘Oh!’ He’s surprised but not hurt; it was too quick for that and the teeth barely scraped him. Snoopadoop munches happily, her jaw working with an almost cheeky relish.

 _Stop shaking,_ he chides himself, aware of the trembles in his arms and slightly shifty feet. It goes to show how long it’s been since he’s been in someone else’s house, besides his mother’s at least.

‘Weird, this, isn't it, Skip?’ Arthur chooses that moment to comment – maybe he can read how obviously uncomfortable Martin is and that somehow makes it worse. ‘You, taking tea with me at home, rather than at the airfield.’ He pushes the biscuit plate back at him and Martin accepts shakily, takes a bite of a bourbon to try and steady his nerves.

‘Er, yes- yes,’ he curses the stammer; even though it's only Arthur, he still curses it. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘You alright?’ Arthur asks, conversational; completely at ease in his own home as he leans back on the sofa. ‘Been a long week, hasn’t it?’

‘Mm.’ Martin swallows and takes a gulp of tea, more rudely than he had hoped. He feels a bit like a homeless tramp, all things considered, sitting in worn jeans and too-large, navy jumper on Arthur’s sofa in what can only be called a truly luxurious house – he feels the ache of envy as he takes in the lounge, which is as big as his whole attic, with its two large comfy sofas, its massive wide-screen television; the sheer softness of the thick carpet beneath his soles (Arthur having insisted he take his shoes off and make himself at home and only the sheer sight of the place and fear of dirtying it with his trainers had compelled him to do such a thing).

Behind them, there are French windows leading outside into a lush, bountiful and very large garden.  Everything is painted in cheerful, cream colours, the shade of lemons (and Toblerone packets, he thinks ruefully) calming in the summer, probably cosy in the winter lit by the fire – the coal settled in a large pile in the fireplace for what must make a truly toasty glow.

And yet, it’s not… it’s not utterly pristine. There are scuff marks in the carpet; dog hairs have been shed on the rug in front of the television and Snoopadoop’s basket is close to the fireplace, bent and shaped to her girth. There are papers in clumsy piles on the table in what can only be the attached dining area; stains here and there, water-marks on the walls – Arthur’s doing, probably – and Snoopadoop, who is rolling around at their feet, slipping in between Arthur's legs, her body making a visible dent in the cream carpet beneath Martin's toes. It shows signs of being lived-in; of being a home.

He’s still taking it all in when Snoopadoop chooses that moment to wander forward and rests her head on Martin’s knee.

‘Oh,’ Arthur notes, sounding pleased while Martin jumps a mile. ‘She likes you.’

‘Ah – hm.’ Martin throws a tight smile in his direction, unsure exactly how to handle the situation and not getting any help from Arthur’s quarter. Snoopadoop’s chin is a warm weight on his leg and she gazes up at him with what is starting to feel like a tremendous amount of patience. Martin wonders, then rolls his eyes and pets her head, still cautious. He managed to almost freeze a cat to death last year; knowing his luck he’d probably drop his whole mug of tea on this poor dog’s head. Instead, Snoopadoop simply takes his attention as a go and rears up on her hind legs – Martin’s heart catches for a split second – in a clear demand for more.

‘Oh. Erm…’ With a glance at Arthur, who nods, encouraging, Martin concedes. ‘Alright, then.’ Tentatively, he strokes one of her ears; Snoopadoop’s nose twitches and snuffles and she seems satisfied as Martin starts to grow bolder and lets his hand run a bit, pets her under the chin, the side of her neck. That last one leaves her leaning against his thigh, his hand cupping one side of her head, a small rumble escaping her mouth in contentment.

‘Awww!’ Arthur sounds utterly ecstatic. ‘She _does_ like you!’

‘Right.’ Martin throws the words over his shoulder, a little taken aback by this, by all of it and how…well he’s doing, here. ‘Thanks. Oh…’ he blinks as Snoopadoop lazily shifts her head and then licks his trousers. ‘Erm, thankyou. Thankyou.’ He chuckles, just a bit anxious, aware of Arthur’s eyes on him as he pats the steward’s beloved pet.  

‘… Do you not like dogs, Skip?’ Arthur asks, suddenly. He’s clearly taking note of the slow, steady movements of Martin’s hand and Martin pauses, frowning at the question.

‘I’m not sure, really.’

The truth is, Martin doesn’t really have much opinion of dogs, beyond a slight wariness of them. As a boy, he had often fallen back behind Simon when dogs cut away from their driveways and gambled over to them, simply because some of the families who lived near them – with kids who came up in the street and tried to demand money off you - had seemed the type to own breeds who had the potential to be just a little bit vicious: German Shepherds and bull terriers who had barked at him from behind locked gates as he walked home from school. He had never been as bold as his brother, who strode forward with a hand held out and a big, easy smile, a confident walk.

‘We didn’t own any pets growing up,’ he explains, keeping a hand on Snoopadoop’s fur, finding an odd sort of anchorage about it.

‘Aw! Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ Martin muses, ‘just didn’t have the money or the time, I suppose. She is nice, though,’ he hastens to add, quickly ruffling Snoopadoop’s neck again to prove a point. It's not a lie, either; her fur, the colour of milky tea, is soft and shaggy beneath his hand, lax and very, very soothing against the palms, the curls in the fur almost like fine ribbon. She’s very well groomed; Carolyn or Arthur must wash her on a frequent basis. And she _is_ friendly.

‘She is,’ Arthur says, sounding for the entire world like a proud father. ‘I think she thinks you’re brilliant. Aw, look!’ Snooadoop’s tongue has slipped out against Martin’s hand again and he tries to stay his fears about hygiene, to not make a fuss about dog saliva and the potential for germs. It’s been his general… _himness_ that’s lead to him not being part of the gang, after all.

‘I’m glad someone does,’ he grumbles, the tiring cacophony and blur of the last week of laughter, rowdiness and tripping over his own feet all hazing its way back to him.

And with it returns the thing that’s been on his mind and jiggling his hands since he arrived here – since he decided to bite the bullet and talk to Arthur about it head-on, only for Arthur to invite him over and apparently, ever the steward, offer Martin tea and biscuits.

Arthur glances his way, a little 'Huh?' on his tongue and there's really no point putting it off any longer.

‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Martin asks the question quietly, the slight hurt he can’t help slipping through, even after everything.

‘Hm?’ Arthur says, taking a sip of his own tea – disgustingly light-looking and too much sugar to speak of; just looking at it makes Martin wince – and puts his head to the side. ‘What’s that, Skip?’

‘About,’ Martin clears his throat, ‘the other pub.’ _The cooler gang._

Arthur swallows, hard, puts his mug down. ‘Well… Yes, Skipper. I did know.’

‘And you had been asked to just...keep me away.’ It hurts Martin more than he’d like to think, to say all that out loud. It shouldn't – he's a grown man, for pity's sake – but it does; has been rattling around his brain, a thought he can't shake off and away as easily as the rest. The familiar feeling of being – condescended to. Just like being given his Dad's van in lieu of his becoming a pilot; something to make money with, just not the thing he really wanted.

He and Arthur have… well. They get on. Arthur’s not like Douglas, who teases and cajoles with an ever-mocking purr. They’re… well. Friendly colleagues, if not friends, exactly, and Arthur’s always been kind enough, a nice if clueless voice on the aeroplane. If Martin is brutally honest with himself, he thought that maybe he and Arthur had some common ground, a kind of… _something_ against the combined cleverness and slight callousness of Carolyn and Douglas, who can seem as thick as thieves sometimes. A kinship of sorts; countered by reassurance that Arthur hadn’t known about the pub either, that Martin wasn’t the only one out of the loop.

But no, even Arthur – _Arthur –_ had been let in on the secret of the new pub. When it came down to it, his knowledge of the pub was preferable even to Martin’s. 

But then – everybody _likes_ Arthur, so why is he even questioning it?

‘Well…’ Arthur sounds as though he wants to argue the point Martin has made, but it quickly fades and he sounds miserable; _looks_ miserable in his seat, contemplating his tea.

‘Yeah,’ he offers; truthful enough and that’s something, at least. ‘Yeah, I… I did, didn't I?'

‘You tried to lie to me,’ Martin says the words more quietly than he means to. Even with the revelation of Douglas's little scam, it was Arthur’s attempt at covering for him – no matter how poor the attempt – that had truly stung and still does. Martin’s _not_ an idiot – despite certain First Officers stating a belief to the contrary – and the idea that Arthur of all people was sent to fob him off is, well. It's a hard pill to swallow.

Arthur offers him another biscuit, perhaps as parley.

‘I _did_ fail though,’ he points out. Martin wants to refuse the plate, to focus on the conversation at hand, but the simple kindness of the gesture and the fact that he really has not tasted Happy Faces for a while (and is, if he’s honest with himself, rather hungry) takes one. It’s more comfort than Arthur’s words provide – the fact that Arthur of all people _had_ tried to evade him from the truth, despite Douglas’s apparent intentions.

Although…Martin is still a little shell-shocked that Douglas would go to the effort to allow him to have a whole pub to himself – and he can’t help but wonder if that’s truly the kind of thing Douglas _would_ do just for him, because, well. He’s _Douglas._

‘And anyway,’ Arthur throws out, then. ‘I liked spending time with you. And I thought you’d like the quiet, that’s all.’

Martin scoffs into his tea; even Arthur can’t mistake the meaning of that and pushes on. ‘No, really, I did. I thought a – a quiet drink and a chat would be just what you wanted, Skip.’

Resisting the urge to sneer, Martin looks around, unable to meet Arthur's eyes just then and meeting Snoopadoop’s instead. She blinks at him, inspecting the situation from her position at their feet; maybe judging him for not listening to her master.

‘Don't be sad, Skip,’ Arthur entreats, sounding anxious and Martin grouses in disgust.

‘I’m _not_ sad.’ After all, thirty-something men do not and should not feel ‘sad’ that a bunch of uncouth, ignorant... wallahs left them feeling confused and out of place in a group gathering. _And yes, Douglas, that includes you._ He's the Captain, after all.

‘No, no, of course not. Although,’ Arthur suddenly sounds contemplative and Martin really has to resist the temptation to roll his eyes, just because it wouldn’t be polite to do so in someone else’s house. ‘It would be alright, actually. If you were.’ He’s looking at his tea, musing at the edge. ‘Sad, that is. About the pub.’

‘Arthur, for the last time –’

‘I mean,’ Arthur continues hurriedly, _‘I_ felt sad. Because they didn’t tell me about it, either.’

…Oh. That’s. _That’s_ something Martin didn’t expect to hear out loud.  ‘You didn’t seem sad.’

Arthur shrugs. ‘Nah, I was a little. Couldn’t you tell? I don’t really like being left out of things. I mean, sometimes it’s an accident, and people don’t realise they’re doing it, do they? They’re thinking of someone or something else and so they’re not thinking of you – they’re not doing it on purpose so you shouldn’t feel hurt by it, not really. But I like Dave and George and Dirk and everyone and we talk a lot, so I thought they would have at least _mentioned_ it…’

Martin swallows a huge gulp of the tea; tries not to feel too reassured by this. Really, he knows why Arthur wasn’t told; the man can’t lie to save his life. That has to be the only reason, surely?  

‘But you do get on with them, Arthur.’ He presses that fact, partly to comfort the steward, because from a distance, he’s always sees Arthur – and Douglas – chatting and laughing with the staff; they always seem to be smiling and bantering. And Arthur – _Arthur –_ always seems to be in on the joke; he’s always offered a high-five of some kind, he’s always laughing at _something_ that _someone_ is saying as the ground staff loiter around, banter, playfully shoving one another.

And the thought has slid into his mind, clear as a switch: _I don’t do that._

Well. Obviously not – he’s a professional. And it not – it’s not because he’s standoffish. Is it? Maybe. He doesn’t…he just doesn't want to be the kind of man who's seen to be…lax on the airfield, who spends valuable working hours side-stepping his duties. No-one can call him grand; one only has to look at his living conditions, his van, to realise that. No-one even knows he lives with a bunch of students; he’s not even told Douglas, Carolyn and Arthur the full story yet (and he’s not sure he ever wants to).

‘Well, we have a laugh.’ Arthur says in response, takes a Jammie Dodger and dips it into his tea. Once. Twice. His eyes are settled on the biscuit, rather than on his captain. ‘They’ve always been nice.’  

Martin thinks about contesting this last point; he wants to, but really, he’s too tired for it. Maybe the ground crew just aren’t nice to _him;_ maybe they couldn’t find anything about him worth being nice about. Really, he can see why they’d get on with Arthur; the man might have a brain that’s running on a slow, squeaky hamster wheel, but he _is_ good-hearted and cheerful and inclusive – he never leaves anyone out. He’s just universally popular (his Aunt Ruth being the only exception, for obvious reasons).

No, it’s just – Martin never really knew how to – to do those things that Arthur can do, that Douglas can do even better, that the whole of the airfield can do except for him. To chip in at the right place; to say the right thing; to hold up a hand for one of those high-fives; apparently, he still doesn’t. He _had_ had things to say, but it turned out that none of them had been things anyone had wanted to hear, let alone laugh about (not that making people laugh had turned out to be his strong point anyway). He couldn’t even get halfway through his theory on the disappearance of Amelia Earhart without people suddenly remembering somewhere very important that they had to be which preferably wasn’t where Martin was.

He had gone in with the hope that he could do it; had felt something like a bold fizzle after the first evening, which had left him wandering out feeling puzzled but pleased, left him going home with his head held high and waving merrily to the students on his way up to his attic. But the puzzlement had soon turned to bafflement, to confusion, revulsion even and he had been the one getting laughed at. Again.

 ‘Are you really upset with me, Skip?’ Arthur asks then, obviously perceiving Martin's refusal to respond and he looks up, meets his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’ He looks right into Martin’s face as he says it, then drops his gaze in something that looks suspiciously like shame.

‘Douglas told me,’ he explained. ‘He said you wanted the bar to yourself and I knew you wanted to have a place to sit and drink and talk shop and you couldn't do that with the other guys, so I thought it would make you happy.’

‘You _were_ babysitting me though, weren’t you?’ Martin asks the question harshly, more harshly than intended. It’s not – he does recognise Douglas’ gesture: the giving Martin his own space – but it still smarts; the idea that he was being kept away from everyone else. The clique that left no door open for him to join them – literally.

‘Well, no,’ Arthur adds. ‘Not altogether. Just; you’d said I could sit in the bar with you and I wanted to. I _did_ ask.’ He takes a bite of very-soggy biscuit; has been dipping it up and down in his tea, repeatedly. But he doesn’t stumble over his words; doesn’t make up names or mention things from last week or turn utterly red in the face with sheer panic. He raises his gaze and looks back at Martin. ‘You said I could be Arthur and I wanted to be Arthur.’

The steward doesn’t lie. Martin knows the steward doesn’t lie – and he hasn’t fallen over yet, so he isn’t lying now.

But still: ‘You don’t have to sit with me out of pity, Arthur.’

‘I wasn’t, Skip.’ Arthur sounds defensive, suddenly, his brow furrowed, is frowning at Martin as though Martin is somehow the slow one. ‘I _wanted_ to. And – well…’ He pauses. ‘I don’t think you were getting on very well with the rest of the guys, were you, Skip?’

Martin blinks; takes a very, very large gulp of tea to buy himself time and then promptly coughs half of it back up into his mug, his throat and mouth unable to take it. He leans forwards, mortified, coughing heavily and then there’s a napkin in his hands and a large palm – Arthur’s palm – is patting his back, with a telling gentleness. Snoopadoop has veered up, her head lingering by Martin's thigh, seeming concerned.  

‘Thought not.’ Arthur says it so kindly and Martin feels more mortified than ever as he leans back against the sofa, coughing in his hand, wiping his tea-damp mouth. _Thank God Douglas isn’t here to see that._

There's just... _something_ about hearing it said out loud: an admission. He'd made it obvious in his rant to Douglas, distressed and repelled in equal measure and terribly, terribly confused that this was what counted as past-time to some people. And Douglas, ever-cunning and resourceful and popular Douglas, had taken action and separated Martin from the rest of the group. A silent but blatant declaration from all parties involved: _This isn’t working, for any of us._

But Arthur. Arthur is the one who has simply _said_ it; stated the facts as they were, without judgement. Arthur who is now patting his back, holding out the other hand to Snoopadoop, who comes to him readily and he scratches her ears, ruffles her fur, keeps a hand on both canine and captain.

And just like that, Martin feels all the fight go out of him.

‘No,’ he agrees, any token denial that no, no, all the guys were good fun, just to save his pride, slipping away. He's had enough fibs for the time-being and Arthur nods, looking…odd and not the usual Arthurian kind of odd, either. Just strangely sympathetic without being pitying; soft and open. Not leaping to the ground crew’s defense and telling Martin that he’s wrong, it’s not them with the problem, it’s him, it’s always him, _just try a little harder, Martin._ Just…Arthur accepting it, for what it is.

It’s such a bloody relief that Martin thinks he might want to cry.

‘Like I said,’ Arthur comments finally, 'Dave and George and Karl – they’re great. But they’re not…’ He shrugs. ‘They’re not like you, Skip.’

All the elation that’s starting to climb through Martin promptly drops away. ‘Oh, thanks a lot – ‘

‘No, no. I mean, I don’t mean – you’re a _different_ sort of great, aren’t you?' Arthur throws the words out quickly. ‘I mean – I’d had a bit of a hard day with Mr. Powell and Bluey and everyone and, well. I just sort of wanted things to be a bit quiet for a while, because I’d been working so hard all week, trying to be a better steward for Mum so I could borrow her car.  And anyway, I thought – well. I thought maybe we could enjoy a bit of peace and quiet together. You and me. I was – I was quite looking forward to a chat with you, actually because it was weird, being on the aeroplane without you.’

He glances Martin's way, perhaps seeking clarification, or maybe assurance, or something, but Martin… Martin _really_ doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s rather dumbfounded, all things considered.

‘I had so many things to tell the guys,’ the steward pushes on; obviously feeling some need to explain and maybe encouraged by Martin’s silence, ‘except... you can’t talk shop with them and I don’t really have a lot of money to spare for a round for the whole bar, Mum doesn’t like giving me too much money in case I spend it on silly things after I brought all that _Danger Mouse_ merchandise from Amazon – so I couldn’t tell them about my training. But I knew I could tell you because it would be like comparing notes, like you said and I thought maybe you could give me some tips.’

He shrugs in the face of Martin's staggered silence, his hand careful on Snoopadoop's head. ‘And, you know… I like planes, too, Skip. And well. I dunno. It can be _really_ hard not to talk shop.’

‘Oh, _Arthur…’_ Martin groans the steward’s name out, half-incredulous, half-touched and yet another half of himself telling him to get a grip, just stop being so bloody emotional.

‘I mean it,’ Arthur says calmly, unnecessary. ‘I’m not lying.’

‘…I know.’

They sit together, finishing their tea, Arthur apparently needing a moment to recover from such a long speech and Martin, for his part, needing a moment to recover from hearing it – right before something catches up with him and he turns to frown at Arthur.

‘Arthur – who exactly _are_ Mr. Powell and Bluey?’ They didn’t have any passengers on the rota, did they? Weren’t they supposed to be on standby all week? Arthur gulps his tea down, shifts in his seat.

‘Ah, well – it began when –’

There’s a nudge of slobber at Martin’s leg – he looks down to see Snoopadoop there, holding a toy bone in her hand that she’s apparently brought back from somewhere and looking expectant. She pushes herself up and deposits it right on Martin’s lap with care and then steps back. Once more, Martin wills himself to clamp down any fuss; it’s only his old jeans after all, he reminds himself. They can be washed.

‘Oh, right, Snoopadoop wants to play!’ The strangeness of the last few moments successfully broken, Arthur jumps up and gestures Martin to his feet. ‘Come on, Skip, bring the bone; let’s go outside!’

Martin hesitates – he’s not sure and he really ought to be getting back, thinks about making some excuse. But then all the excuses that were made to _him,_ all the empty apologies of _sorry, I have to go now_ in the middle of an anecdote he was trying to recount over the last week, sneak back to him; how it felt to be dismissed like that, to watch someone escaping his company – as well as the immediate problem of being on the receiving end of two pairs of brown, beseeching eyes.

Plus, Arthur _has_ just made him feel a lot better. So how can he refuse?

So Martin makes himself get up from Carolyn's luxurious sofa, retrieves his shoes and shoves his feet into them; follows Arthur and a gambling Snoopadoop out through the French windows and into the garden.

It’s a grey, murky day, but warm enough for a throwing session; Snoopadoop darts out in front of them, turns in a one-eighty circle to gaze at them, tail wagging, clearly waiting for Martin to throw the bone that he's still holding in one hand. 

He does – a slightly pathetic try – but Snoopadoop hares off after it all the same and brings it right back, dropping it at his feet and gazing up at him. _Again, please._ Martin is surprised – he thought she would bring it to Arthur and he quickly clears his throat, sets himself to the task.

‘How long have you had her?’ he asks between throws, and Arthur sets off on the story; tells him all. Martin feels something inside him constrict when he hears that Snoopadoop was a puppy, brought into the Blue Cross after being starved and neglected. He’s heard those stories, seen the RSPCA adverts on the rare occasions he gets to watch the television, but hearing Arthur talk about it, here and now, makes it more real; to know that this happy, carefree creature in front of him was the victim of somebody else’s cruelty.

‘I'm –’ he swallows. ‘I'm sorry, Arthur.’ He's not quite sure what he's apologising for but the sudden memory of that cat comes to mind once again, soaking up the sun somewhere in the Emirates right about now, no thanks to him and if it hadn't been for Arthur's intercession… 

‘She was so thin, Skip.’ Arthur throws another ball and Martin watches him watch her chase it. ‘No-one had fed her in days.’ There's something in his face, as he gazes after Snoopadoop that holds his eyes, something that's decidedly _not_ warm and welcoming.

The kind of expression, for instance, that pre-determines whether someone is about to have a whole dubious chocolate cake mix dumped on them. Martin swallows as Arthur kneels, arms spread out, suddenly protective as Snoopadoop gambles back and falls into them; Snoopadoop who seems to want nothing more than to eat and bound and play – and play with _Martin,_ of all people.

He takes the ball Arthur gives him and chucks it, while the steward, having seemingly composed himself, continues with his story.

‘We brought her home… Dad was gone by this point, it was just the two of us…’ Arthur’s voice seems to falter – or maybe it's just Martin hearing things and he hesitates, opens his mouth, thinks about asking after the rarely-mentioned Mr. Shappey but Arthur continues, steamrolling smoothly over it and Martin decides to leave it there and ask another time. Something else, however, does occur to him.  

‘Arthur, can I just ask: where _is_ Carolyn?’ It’s stupid, but he finds himself suddenly caught by the fact that he hasn’t seen her since he left the airfield. Part of him still feels immense guilt at landing Douglas in it, but knowing the man, he’ll be back in tomorrow and smirking as usual and things will go on as per.

Arthur waves a hand around. ‘Paperwork in the portacabin. She likes to work there where it’s quiet.’

Martin thinks about the papers he saw on the dining-room table with the conspicuous absence of Carolyn and decides not to comment.

‘Haven’t seen Douglas either,’ he shrugs, scratching his neck; wonders what the man had up his sleeve in the end to wriggle them all out of trouble. _Rather took one for the team there,_ he thinks, with a grudging respect; although he hopes it was enough. He and Douglas have… well, it is a working relationship, with elements of friendliness and competitiveness and Martin would be lying if he said he hadn’t often fantasised about the day when _he’ll_ be the one to get it right, his much-mocked years and years of study and memorisation all paying off, he’ll get something that Douglas won’t and Douglas will be left choking on his own arrogance – but still. Martin would rather work with him than anyone else.

‘He’s probably just gone home,’ Arthur offers, easily and it’s enough somehow to soothe Martin's nerves on the subject; really, they would both know by now if it was bad news and Arthur clearly hasn’t heard anything to the contrary. ‘Want to kick that ball around for Snoop?’

‘Um. Yes. Alright.’

*

It’s interesting, Martin discovers, to watch Arthur in what is clearly his comfort zone; there’s something in his voice when he calls to Snoopadoop, that makes the dog turn, the trust utterly vivid between them, a confidence unshaken in the way she dodges back to his side, skittering around the grass by his heels.

Arthur shows Martin a few tricks – _sit, lie down, roll over –_ and finishes with _Gimme a paw_ , which she does, before rolling back onto her tummy at Martin’s feet.

‘Oh, okay then.’ Martin bends down and tickles her stomach; Snoopadoop wriggles beneath his hand, rubbing herself against the grass with joyful grunts. Martin would suspect Arthur of showing off a bit, but there’s something so concrete in the bond between the dog and her master, the way Arthur keeps his eyes on hers at all times that dispels the thought immediately. Arthur is in his element; Snoopadoop follows his every instruction with happy obedience and there’s an obvious respect and trust from both sides, a confidence in Arthur’s stance as he plays with her. It’s a side to the steward that Martin rarely sees.

All in all, it’s rather a lovely past-time, fresh air and a game that requires very little mental stimulation and in a garden, no less – a proper garden full of running-space, so unlike the two-bit concrete patio at the student house where cheap barbecues are held. For no reason at all, they end up jogging around the edge of the garden with Snoopadoop between them, her head twisting this way and that for a treat, but never straying far.

It’s a decent change from being inside a cockpit, Martin realises rather belatedly, even as it becomes a bit of a race, one lap and then another. Martin _wins_ too, but he wasn’t even trying; it just does his body a huge deal of good to simply _be_ on the move without lugging something heavy around on his back.

And it excites Snoopadoop, who weaves between them like a furry slinky with such eagerness that Martin almost falls over – _almost,_ though, because Arthur is there to grab him by the arm, tug him upright. Snoopadoop wags her tail cautiously enough that Martin finds he can’t really be cross; she’s just simply being all… spritely and doggy, after all.

‘Yes, quite right,’ he murmurs to her a while later, when she’s returning with yet another toy to show him; she’s clearly spoilt rotten, the garden is littered with playthings and the growing realisation that it’s not just Arthur, but indeed Carolyn as well who thoroughly pampers this pooch is doing things to Martin’s brain that he can’t quite comprehend. ‘Eight toys are not enough, you’ve got to have – ‘

She drops the squeaky chicken into the pile at his feet.

‘Nine,’ he agrees. ‘Yep, nine’s a lot better than eight.’ He grins at her, still a little shy and chucks the chicken as hard as he can, watches her race away after it across the garden and feels an odd pride that he managed to send it that far for her.

‘You’re definitely her new friend, Skip,’ Arthur announces, wandering back out with more tea, placing the tray on the garden table and Martin tries, really tries, not to feel too pleased about it. It feels a bit daft really, someone like him – or _especially_ him, the man who lives on toast, pasta and baked potatoes taking solace in the affection of someone else’s dog, but it makes a nice change.

‘Well, at least I don’t have the problem of talking with her,’ he muses aloud and honest; no-one here to judge him with sarcastic comments. ‘Don’t have to worry about finding topics of conversation that don’t involve flying.’ He accepts the tea Arthur hands him, with very little hesitance this time; he must have been here now for over an hour, maybe two.

‘Though, I suppose,’ he adds, rueful, realising he’s getting into slightly self-pitying and rather confidential territory, ‘she’d probably find some excuse. _Sorry, Martin, suddenly got to go and find a rabbit!’_

He exclaims it in a high, would-be cheerful voice, chances a grin in Arthur’s direction – only to find that the steward is blinking back at him, looking confused.

‘Snoopadoop doesn’t chase rabbits, Skip,’ he informs him seriously and Martin feels his stomach drop; yet again, after an hour of managing not to, he’s made a total idiot of himself, only this time he’s managed to insult Arthur’s dog as well. Of _course_ she wouldn’t; Arthur’s probably specifically trained her not to do such things. The man who rescued the life of a ‘sweet little pussy-cat’ (and who insisted in bringing it right out of the hold in the end, instead playing with it in the cabin until they landed – they’d needed a lot of plasters from the First Aid Kit after that trip) wouldn’t appreciate his own beloved dog haring off after darling little bunnies, after all.

‘And I don’t think she would,’ Arthur adds, then and gives him another bourbon. ‘Run away. From you, I mean. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Skip.’

He turns, leaving Martin to parse that over as he eats his biscuit and claps his hands at Snoopadoop, an obvious substitute for a whistle.

‘Snoooooop! Come here, girl! That’s it…’ She hurtles towards the grass to him and drops down by his feet; there’s a small bowl of water on the tray he’s carrying and she pushes her nose and mouth into it as he places it on the ground for her, her tongue lapping greedily with obvious relish.

‘Maybe I should work on it, though,’ Martin muses over the sound of the frenzied water, rubbing the back of his neck as he considers the prospect; puts a hand on Snoopadoop’s back for courage at the very thought of it. It might be worth considering.

‘Well. Not necessarily, Skip.’ Arthur regards him. ‘I mean – you’ve been asking _me_ about Snoopadoop because you know I like animals. _That’s_ a good conversation, right?’

That… _that_ makes Martin pause, because - he has, hasn't he? He _did_ do that.

‘Well…’ He huffs; sips the tea. ‘It’s good of you to say that, Arthur… Thankyou.’ Embarrassing, that he has to thank the steward for something like that, but all the same –

‘Well, you're doing better than Douglas,’ Arthur adds then, brightly. _‘He’s_ allergic.’

And just like that, the world feels like a very, very wonderful place. Martin keeps his eyes straight ahead over his mug, bites back the Grinch-like grin that’s threatening, something in his chest stupidly almost ready to burst.

 _‘Is_ he now…?’

‘Yeah. He can’t come anywhere near her, because he starts coughing and sneezing. Though thinking about it, that _is_ a secret…’ Arthur glances up, suddenly anxious. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you Skip? Douglas said he’d. Well.’

He glances down; covers Snoopadoop's ears as she resurfaces from the water-bowl and then puts Martin in the picture about what exactly Douglas told him he would do. Martin bites his lip, torn between utterly horrified and more tempted about this than he’s ever been about anything in his life.

‘He would, too.’ He pats the steward’s shoulder, a little gingerly. ‘Nope, will tell absolutely no-one, Arthur. Not a soul.’ Wouldn’t do for the guys in the pub to know one of the Sky Gods’ weaknesses now, would it? And as Arthur has just been an extremely friendly and considerate host, offering an open space to Martin and being approachable in a way that not many others have been over the last few days…

‘I won’t, Arthur,’ he promises, finally. Not to anyone who isn’t Douglas anyway, should he ever need more ammunition to shock the man besides the whole Captain Thing, and Arthur relaxes, his shoulders dropping.

‘What do you think Douglas will do now, Skip? About the pub?’  

‘I don’t know.’ Martin gingerly scratches under Snoopadoop’s now-damp chin. ‘He’ll probably have to move it again, keep it a secret from your mother now she’s found out where they are. You’d better ask him.’ He glances up; suddenly realises the problem that’s potentially lying between them here.

‘You don’t have to tell me where it is,’ he hastens to assure Arthur. ‘You really don’t. I, erm.’ He coughs, stands and keeping a hand on Snoopadoop’s back for courage, admits quietly, ‘I think you’re right, you know – what you said earlier, I mean. About me not really getting on with them.’

Arthur eyes him for a moment, props his head to the side. It’s not quite a frown and it isn’t… Martin’s certain it’s not quite sympathy this time, either. Rather, an inspection of sorts, of Martin. It should be intimidating, being on the receiving end and maybe a little alarming, but it just _isn’t._

And then Arthur is reaching forwards, wrapping his arms around Martin’s shoulders in a careful hug, a soft squeeze that takes Martin completely by surprise. _I’m the Captain,_ he thinks stupidly and then remembers they’re off-duty. (Bloody hell – he really _is_ that bad).

But then Arthur doesn’t seem to mind his hesitance. His hug is an easy kind of warmth and Martin could swear he catches the scent of tea from his jumper; a lingering, safe kind of heat. He pats Arthur’s back, uncertain but… touched, all the same, and something in him seems to fall away, the uncertainty that’s always clawing its way up the pipes, just retreating for a moment at the comforting, rare contact; the unconditional kindness that Arthur always gives without fail.

‘Don’t worry,’ Arthur tells him finally, letting him go and taking a step back. ‘I mean – I don’t always understand what’s going on when I’m with them, if I’m honest. Although I’ll give you a tip, Skip – if you ever decide to go back and you haven’t got a clue what they’re saying, then just laugh really hard and high-five them. I do it all the time,’ he adds in a whisper, putting a finger to his lips, very serious and very confidential.

 _‘…Right,’_ Martin practically squeaks the word. Arthur shrugs, looking a little caught, but not terribly concerned about it.

‘You can always come out walking with us, if you want to! Can’t he, Snoopadoop?’ Arthur addresses that last question towards her as she wags her tail by his feet.

‘That means yes,’ he beams at Martin and Martin rubs his neck, utterly unsure what to say and still reeling a little from the hug and… the other thing.

The crux of it is: _Arthur isn’t lying._ This whole afternoon has been… _something,_ rather than the awkward, dodged eyes of everyone else at the airfield; rather than quiet afternoons spent reading in his attic, going for strolls by himself, playing on his phone. This, however, feels genuine; it’s so unlike Douglas’ panicked, _‘Well, I won’t keep you…’_ and his frantic attempts to get Martin away from his house and away from his secret (and the memory of that still stings – although on the heel of that is the fact that that was the one and only time he ever caused Douglas Richardson to panic, to catch him inside his own lie).

 _None_ of this, he realises, has been a lie.

‘Well, Arthur…’ he murmurs finally, struck by a sudden boldness, ‘if you, erm. If you ever need, I don’t know, anybody to, perhaps… walk her while you’re on GERTI… if I happen to have a day off, that is…’

‘Well, our neighbours usually walk her,’ Arthur responds and Martin bites his lip; of _course_ they do, of _course_ Arthur and Carolyn wouldn’t just leave their dog unattended. ‘But I’ll have a word with Mum. Thanks, Skip.’

‘It’s fine.’ There’s a brief silence and then Martin makes a show of looking at his watch, mostly to hide the awkward heat creeping up through his ears.

‘I really should be going now, Arthur, but. Well. I’ve had a lovely afternoon, it’s been really… really lovely.’ He coughs, furious at himself but Arthur simply smiles and escorts him back through the house and to the front door, Snoopadoop on his heels.

‘You can always come back again,’ he invites. Snoopadoop jumps up, puts her paws on Martin’s trousers, leaving faint marks and adding to the collection of slight mud-splatters Martin’s collected from the garden. No matter; they _do_ need washing. ‘Maybe next time we can watch a film! _And_ go for a walk.’

‘Well – yes, that’s – yes – yes, well.’ Martin nods, leaves it there. That doesn’t sound wholly unappealing; in fact, it sounds quite nice. ‘Although – maybe not when your mother is in the house.’

Arthur grins – maybe chuckles, just a bit, a sort of humming laugh that makes him sound, just for a second, like Carolyn – except less malevolent and perhaps even more thoughtful. He watches Martin trying to put his coat on with the dog bumbling around his feet and then reaches out to tug Snoopadoop carefully away by the collar.

‘You know, Skip… If you _ever_ need anything…’ He reaches out and touches Martin’s foot with his own. ‘If you want help – well, you can always ask me.’

 _What on earth could I need you for?_ Martin wonders – not because he’s trying to be unkind, but because he’s genuinely uncertain. His life is a very independent one; he’s learnt to live it in a way that befits him and him alone, without needing assistance from other quarters. Still, Arthur _does_ like helping and he already, in his way, helps Martin a lot; he brings him caffeine in the flight-deck to keep both him and the plane upright, participates in the games they play, provides… unique conversation and discussion points for both him and Douglas (especially on good days, when he and the First Officer are, essentially, on the same side).

And there’s been, well, today, which has left the mangle of thoughts and anxieties in Martin’s head feeling a little better, a little clearer, than they did after he left the airfield yesterday, the safe knowledge that he and Douglas are not going to be fired counter-acted by the unmovable epiphany that nobody on the airfield particularly fancies his company over a pint.

 _Nobody,_ it turns out, isn’t _everybody._ So, well. There’s that.

He doesn’t say this, though. Instead, he just smiles politely, and says, ‘Thankyou, Arthur,’ and then in a spirit of camaraderie, holds out his hand to Snoopadoop – which she takes.

And in any case, when Martin ends up spraining his ankle a year later, he knows he has someone to call; for once, he can push past the striking panic as he sits on the edge of the hospital bed and instead pulls out his phone to contact Arthur.

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Just in case it needs clarification, Martin doesn't know that Douglas and Carolyn are conspiring together about the pub, so what we as the audience know, he doesn't and genuinely believes that Douglas was covering for him at the end of the episode. Does Arthur know about it? No clue; Carolyn may not tell him and we're lead to believe he was kicked out with everyone else, so wasn't party to Carolyn and Douglas' conversation. But I wanted to take this idea and run with it; I'd rather take tea and doggy times with Arthur and Martin, anyway and I really felt that Martin deserved a bit of a break. 
> 
> Also, cockerpoos are very friendly animals and after meeting one in the park I realised I hadn't made her playful enough, so tried to improve on her character. I hope I did the breed proud.
> 
> Finally, I think you can only buy Happy Faces as part of a wider biscuit collection now, as they don't seem to be sold on their own anymore. Which really bites.


End file.
